Death Through A Lens
by LucyMb
Summary: You never know who might be watching you from afar. The Five-0 detectives are being stalked by a very different kind of criminal. Not all is as it seems, nor are the guilty always to blame. Challenge response.


By LucyMb

Author's Note: This was in response to a challenge of a mock up photo of Steve McGarrett, Ben Kokua, Chin Ho Kelly and Danny Williams in the crosshairs of a lens.

DEATH THROUGH A LENS

It would be so easy; with the officers in plain sight he could pull the trigger and release himself from the burden weighing him down. The rifle was heavy in his hands; palms sweating so profusely that he thought the weapon would slide through his grip. Despite that, his eyes followed the four men as they walked; watching for the right moment, or perhaps secretly waiting for them to disappear from range, thereby giving him the excuse _not_ to do something that was so hard to execute. If he missed his opportunity he couldn't blame _himself_ – but others would and it would cost him dearly.

Nervous, he dropped the gun a fraction, just enough to refocus and hopefully clear his mind of confusion, he licked dry lips. A bead of perspiration snaked its way from his matted hairline and down the side of his face. It didn't help him; in fact the damp tickle only served to remind him of the enormous pressure he was under. This was all new to him; so totally alien that it scared the crap out of him. He had never killed anything bigger than a fly before, and yet he _needed_ to do this. If he missed now he would have to try again later, the only positive outcome of which was that perhaps it would be in a less conspicuous location. At the moment his targets were out in the open and whilst it provided a good opportunity to achieve the desired result, it was also a perfect way to get caught. He didn't have much cover at this distance and discovery was almost assured – it was doubtful he would get away, if indeed that was ever the plan of those who pulled his strings.

Time was ticking away, he could practically hear the second hand on his watch rotating, eating up the moments until it was too late. He shifted in his jacket, anxiously trying to push down feelings of panic and guilt. Seconds passed. Incredibly the detectives in his sight paused, stopping right there in the middle of the street to discuss whatever it was they were talking about so animatedly. The tall Samoan cop referring to his notebook as the others listened intently to what he had to say.

_Do it now_…the gunman urged himself. **NOW**!

His finger slipped into the trigger and he nestled the rifle into his shoulder, eye to the scope and feeling the heavy weight of it like an albatross around his neck.

_PULL NOW_…_just do it…_

Shifting the weapon, he centered the cross hairs on the first target, the one nearest to him. He knew their names, their habits and their schedule; it was all part of his briefing – they had taught him well in order to carry out his assignment.

Death in a barrel, but at the hands of a reluctant killer.

He squeezed slowly but the crosshairs wavered and he stopped, he was too nervous to keep it steady. Holding his breath he tried again, opening his eye wide against the scope as if that would magically make things better but the action accomplished nothing but reflect the cold back at him from the lens.

As a teen his father had taken him hunting, hoping to make a man of the youngster who preferred poetry and politics to anything remotely sportsman-like. He suffered a myriad of bruises afterwards from the beating he got as a result of scaring the stag away. It was beautiful – so full of life and he could not have the animal's death on his conscience. Now, decades later, he was faced with same kind of decision – only this time the fate of human beings lay in his hands; not just those who were standing – unknowingly staked out in front of the rifle, but the unseen ones – his wife and daughter; his precious and innocent family, _they_ were relying on him to `shoot the deer' and come home.

If that wasn't motivation enough, in his pocket lay a gruesome reminder of what would happen should he decide not to go ahead with his mission. In a white handkerchief, soaked with red, lay a delicate and lonely finger, shell-pink nail polish dulled, just like the surrounding dead tissue. His wife would be in pain, forever crippled: his daughter next.

_PULL THE TRIGGER!_

Trying to pretend it was target practice, he swallowed hard, said a prayer to God and his beloved wife, held his breath until his lungs burned and narrowed down the target.

When the gun kicked he knew he had loosed the bullet and his knees almost gave way in fright. The noise of the gunshot was so loud it scared birds from a nearby tree, like vultures in the mid-afternoon sky they circled incessantly. Daring to look, he saw confusion, anger, guns drawn and a man down. He had hit Dan Williams – one of the two men he was supposed to murder. He was immediately sorry for his actions. How badly the man was hurt he couldn't tell; he had no time to think. Knowing they were now under fire, the Five-0 team started to move, covering the wounded officer to protect him and seeking out cover, but there was little, save some slender palm trees across the street. They were exposed and that was to his advantage.

_SHOOT AGAIN – FINISH IT!_

He took aim, emboldened by the fact that he was not yet in custody – perhaps he had a chance to save his family. He aimed fast this time and shot faster. McGarrett went down, not pole axed as his partner had been but he dropped to his knees nevertheless and this time the shooter saw the hole; a tiny spec that grew in size the longer he looked. He had hit him – but no kill.

He panicked, and ran, faster than he had ever run before, dropping the gun against the explicit orders of the kidnappers. He had to reach a phone, to tell them that he had done his job; _surely they would release his family now?_ But reality dictated that wasn't good enough – he knew not whether Williams was dead but McGarrett was only wounded. What else could he do? He had failed them all and his conscience more than any of them.

Behind him chaos continued, with two of their men either wounded or dying he knew Ben Kokua and Chin Ho Kelly would be torn between helping their downed colleagues or coming after him.

If his luck held he would get away.

If his luck held he would get his family back.

As it turned out he did neither.

He was so scared that when he heard the order to stop, he carried on running. He never knew why but he doubted he could have ceased moving even if he had been listening to reason. They asked him to freeze but instead of his feet it was his mind that froze.

The pain wasn't immediate; he registered the sound of gunfire, and the feeling of shock that accompanies trauma, together with the powerful sensation of being hit with an incredibly strong force. His legs stopped working then and his face met the pavement so hard he felt a bone break. In his agony, he struggled for something in his pocket, the severed finger falling out as he did so to lie mangled on the sidewalk like some cheap Halloween trick. Managing to pull his hand alongside him, he stared at the creased photo of his wife and daughter, pretty – both of them and he smiled.

Chin reached him just as his eyes closed for the very last time.

Bending down to pick up the photograph, the Oriental detective looked at it and frowned. Noticing some hand writing on the back he turned it over, it read 'If I should die today, please find my family and bring them home. Tell them I am sorry and that I love them. I never meant to hurt anyone, may God forgive me.'

PAU


End file.
